


Come Clean

by Cesare



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Animate Object, Community: sga_kinkmeme, Dubious Consent, Enemas, Inanimate Object, Inanimate Object Porn, Masturbation, Other, Sentient Atlantis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-12
Updated: 2011-01-12
Packaged: 2017-10-14 16:40:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/151322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cesare/pseuds/Cesare
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Originally posted on the <a href="http://www.delicious.com/sga_kinkmeme/!prompt">SGA Kinkmeme</a> for the prompt <a href="http://sga-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/4913.html?thread=234289#cmt234289">Atlantis/John, shower sex, enemas</a>.</p><p>Contains dubious consent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come Clean

John never mentions it to anyone. Ever. He's heard more than he ever wanted to know about more than a few people on the Atlantis expedition, but he's pretty sure that even the most brazen, TMI-loving starchild among the scientists would keep this one to themselves.

From the first day, everyone loves the Atlantis showers. The interior looks like slightly porous stone, smooth walls, a little rougher underfoot for traction. Touch-sensitive panels provide controls over temperature and water pressure, and offer a variety of preset options from a pummeling massage from every direction to a fine dew and a foamy soap that cleans skin with hardly any scrubbing. Of course after ten thousand years, the foamy soap smells like mackerel, and the engineers quickly take the soap jets offline and drain them out.

But the showers are undeniably just awesome. They're big, with a wide sturdy shelf to sit on that seems to raise or lower depending on the height of the user. (Sometimes after rough missions, John thinks that shelf is literally a lifesaver.) By default only one jet sprays water, but John can trigger a preset that turns some or all on, or just half-twist each of the other jets-- nineteen of them!-- and each joins in from every direction. It only gets better the day he realizes the whole setup responds to his ATA if he just makes a little mental effort, and after that it's always the perfect temp and pressure and angle, every time.

John's never been the kind of guy to go in for locker room talk much, so he doesn't join in when gab in the gym turns to the miracles that Atlantis' showers can perform. But if he had to, he'd admit that yeah, of course he's used those jets to enhance his jerkoff sessions. In fact his ATA gives him such total control that he can stand in just the right spot and get the water to do all the work for him.

From the tragic to the ridiculous, from mercy-killing his commanding officer to trying to sleep each night on a hard little bed with his feet hanging off, a lot of things about Atlantis are awful. John enjoys the damn showers.

A few months in, John gets up the day after a crisis, dead on his feet with his head pounding, falls into the shower, sits on the ledge. The jets start up, pattering him with a warm soft massage from every direction. He lifts his face and water lightly palpates his closed eyelids, the tense knot between his brows. He checks the time-- one of McKay's first edicts to the engineers was to get the expedition's time to display on all the shower control panels-- and with almost an hour before his day starts, he goes ahead and leans back and spreads his legs.

It's all so good that at first, he doesn't really distinguish the new feeling of water coming up from the ledge, hundreds of pinpoints of water welling up. When he notices, he's not that surprised. Water just sort of exudes from tiny holes in the walls when the shower is on the dew setting, so he knew the jets weren't the only action in town.

It's a strange feeling, though, even more like being actually touched than the jets on the massage settings. John shrugs it off and gets back to letting the shower stimulate his skin all over, strong pulses of sensation against his nipples, the soles of his feet, his wrists, his cock. Somehow the spray even caresses his earlobes without ever getting a drop of water in his ears.

It's just getting really good when that backdoor pressure starts to get stronger. John's been rimmed exactly twice, and both times he was too tense to really enjoy it, but that's what the water from the ledge is starting to feel like, and that's weird enough to back John off from the promise of orgasm.

But not weird enough to get him to move.

After all, he's controlling the shower with his mind, basically. If he's taking advantage of the amenities in a new way, well, he can experiment a little if he wants. It's just him in here.

John shifts on the ledge self-consciously, leaving himself a little more open to the water streaming up, and a few minutes later he's coming harder than he ever has in his life. It's so good he doesn't even feel the usual post-masturbation guilt and self-recrimination. His whole body is buzzing with good feeling. There are muscles relaxing in his lower back that have felt perpetually tense for years.

So John can't really be surprised when his shower gives him the same treatment the next few times he steps inside. Even when he's not sitting on the ledge, even when he consciously tries to direct the water _not_ to spray into his crack powerfully enough to part him, to reach and lave his asshole, still, it just... keeps it up. And really, when the orgasms are this good, of course he can't make himself stop it, even when he tries. John's always known he's weak deep down.

Only then, after four or five showers like that, the MO changes again. He didn't even know the jets could extend out from the wall. And he's heard some salty talk among some of the ladies, late at night in the mess hall, (including a conversation about childhood masturbation aids that he'd really like to forget. GI Joe's head wasn't meant to be used that way.) It seems like if anyone else's shower jets came out of the walls like this: water gushing from the head, the rest stretching long and hard, perfectly smooth and totally flexible... surely someone would mention it.

Or, John thinks, as the jet nudges between his cheeks, maybe not.

Okay, he thinks, plastered against the wall, water cascading and caressing every inch of him, the jet slowly, slowly pulsing water against him, against him, _inside_ him...

Okay. Definitely not. No matter how they abused their majorette batons and GI Joes, there's no way any of them would talk about this.

No one else ever even hints that their shower starts every day this way, with liquid fondling and a gentle but insistent probing that pushes and insinuates and fills him and washes him clean while he comes, everything inside him shooting out of him, not even sure anymore if it's the fellatio getting him off, or the enema, or the total lack of control.

Maybe it's just him, his strong ATA gene, his weak will.

John doesn't know. And even if he does want to know... he'll never mention it.


End file.
